


Whatever the Weather

by valerienne (valderys)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-21
Updated: 2010-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-06 12:51:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valerienne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's funny what you get homesick for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever the Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a 'Happy Birthday, Dom!' sort of fic, back in 2004.

The sunset is as spectacular as ever. All pinks and oranges, a few golden clouds stretching out over the water and gilding the waves into brilliance of their own. Glorious. But it will be over too soon. It always is.

The weather is mild, easily warm enough for t-shirts, even in the deepening twilight, but then that too is something that seldom changes. It gets a little hotter in the summer, true, and the sand flies have gone away a bit now it's winter but that's all. The bottle he is holding loosely in one fist is beaded with moisture, but the condensation will dry soon enough and the beer will warm in just a few moments. And that too is normal. Now.

Dom wonders when he got used to these differences, and others like them. Calling the boot of his car the trunk; walking on the sidewalk, not the pavement. Drinking soda and not lemonade. He wonders if it matters.

His career is taking off, and he is glad of that. The powers that be on 'Lost' have noticed he seems to have a following, and he wonders whether he should be grateful to the hordes of fans that swarmed over the summer publicity events, or should shout in exasperation to the money men – hello? I was in the biggest trilogy ever made? What the fuck did you expect? But either way he's glad. He is. This series is everything he wanted, a good role, recognition, huge ratings – and he ignores the still small voice in his head that whispers to him about leading roles in bigger movies. About premieres of his own. Because when he is honest with himself he knows he isn't the leading man type, not really, and mostly he only regrets that a very little bit.

But right now, life is good. It is. He shouldn't be feeling melancholy. That would be distinctly ungrateful, knowing as he does that the rest of the cast are coming out with him and Ian tonight, to celebrate – although not staying out too late, as nearly all of them have a call in the morning. And how many birthdays have been affected that way, so far in his life? Not nearly enough. That is the right answer, the correct and grateful answer, and as a jobbing actor – despite the biggest trilogy ever made, the still small voice reminds him in acid tones – he can't afford to be anything other than grateful that he is here, in Hawaii, watching this latest in a series of spectacular sunsets. Can he? No.

But the warmth of the day is still heating his bare feet, as they curl in the sand, and the last of the magenta and rose sunlight shines off the white tops of the waves as they thunder towards him, and Dom takes a swig of his warming beer. And he wonders.

He thinks about crisp cold mornings, with frost limning the last leaves on the bare trees to icing sugar beauty. He thinks about dull dank days, when the sky was so grey it looked like it might fall, and the streets were dirty with blown rubbish, and everyone walking along looked as grumpy as the day. He thinks about rain, sheeting down like knackered lace curtains, or dripping into his collar as he ran for the school bus. He thinks about pushing wet hair out of his eyes, and feeling damp and uncomfortable all day because everyone knew umbrellas were for wusses and girls. He thinks about boring lessons in a classroom too big to be heated by its poxy radiators, because the Christmas term had never quite ended by now. Never. Not quite.

These are stupid things to miss. Aren't they?

And then his phone goes off.

Dom flips it out of his pocket, quickly checks the caller ID, and then grins. It's as though he can feel the familiar cold of a December day creeping over him, stealing up on his flesh like a chilly kiss. He found emails from his family and his Manchester mates waiting for him on his pc this morning, and he'll talk to them properly at the weekend, but they never can get his shooting schedule straight, nor want to interrupt it, not being part of the business and still slightly in awe of it all, even after all this time. So he hasn't expected them to call.

Dom lifts the phone to his mouth and finds he is still smiling. He could think about what news he has to tell, what bits of set gossip are funny enough to be passed on, what things to ask about, or… But instead Dom finds he's thinking about the weather. It will be quite chilly over there. Probably. The wind blows half a gale at the best of times, and December isn't the most forgiving of months. He'll have that brown jacket of his on, almost certainly. All done up tight to his chin. Dom shivers a little in delicious sympathy as he remembers the cold, and the feel of soft leather holding all that warmth in. It might even be tipping it down with rain, Dom thinks, and – doing a fast calculation – it will be late, nearing eleven. Although it isn't a ridiculous hour, it's easily late enough that the day will have chilled right down, and the rain will feel like little bullets biting into the skin as it blows into your face. It will…

"Hey Billy, mate, how are you?"

"Hey Dom, fine, fine. How are you? Happy birthday, by the way…"

And just the sound of his voice takes Dom away again, back to crisp clear days and dull nights, and a country he's left long behind him, and not even his part of it at that. Stupid things to miss indeed.

"So what's it like over there, Bills?"

"Wet. What's it like over there?"

"Hot."

And they laugh. And Dom feels his melancholy melt away like mist in the curling warmth of that voice. In the thought of that smiling face all damp from the rain. Dom is still British after all, even if he sometimes forgets, and he's allowed to ask bloody stupid questions, however rootless he feels, however far away – it's traditional. It's British. It reminds him of home. So when his best mate rings on his birthday, what does he want to ask him? Of course. Naturally. What else?

They talk about the weather.


End file.
